


I'm shameless, you're outrageous

by Neyiea



Series: You're still my favourite taboo [4]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-16 16:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29335365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/pseuds/Neyiea
Summary: A collection of racy one-shots. Individual summaries and tags inside.
Relationships: Jerome Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Series: You're still my favourite taboo [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2124822
Comments: 14
Kudos: 64





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amvris](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amvris/gifts).



> What is the point of making Harley!Bruce if I cannot have him and Jerome all over each other in the way that canon denied us?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce mimics the face-paint from the carnival for the first time, and he and Jerome take part in a reimagining of what could have happened in front of the face-painter's mirror. Dirty talk, minor knife play, mentions of exhibitionism, humiliation, and death.

Bruce pauses in the midst of applying his eye liner, eyes seeking out Jerome who is standing behind him and watching via the vanity mirror.

Whilst playing around with greasepaints and makeups Bruce has, thus far, avoided directly copying the style painted onto him at a carnival two years ago. In his own mind it was too obvious, too well-known, something that could be linked to him right away. What was the point of trying to conceal his features if he didn’t attempt a completely new look? Wasn’t that why he was stepping out of his sullen, serious comfort zone? Wasn’t that why he’d started playing with paints and colours and textures and clothing? 

But not all of their sessions of ‘dress-up’, as Jerome has come to so fondly refer to times like these, need to be used purely for figuring out how Bruce can best conceal his identity. He likes trying new things. Jerome obviously likes it, too.

But maybe they could revisit an old look together.

Bruce is dressed all in black, a rarity for him nowadays, though instead of a softly woven sweater he’s wearing a silky dress-shirt. Still, it helps to complete the look when Bruce’s hand begins to trace fully around his eyes instead of adding the subtler lines he’d previously been considering. Then onto the middle of the first lower lid he traces a teardrop.

His gaze moves, then, looking for Jerome’s reaction in the mirror.

Dawning comprehension. A widening grin.

Bruce flashes him a small smile in return before focusing his attention on his own face, drawing the second teardrop and sketching in a recreation of dramatically sad eyebrows. All he needs is a woeful frown, and then he’ll once again be the tragedy to Jerome’s comedy. 

He sets his brush down and waits.

“Gotta be honest, Bruce,” Jerome drawls as he steps forward, eyes glinting with unconcealed mirth. He stops just behind Bruce’s shoulder. “You don’t make the world’s funniest clown.” He catches Bruce’s eyes in the mirror and smirks. “But.” He pulls out a knife and flicks it open, gauging Bruce’s reaction before he drags a hand into soft curls and pulls his head back to bare his vulnerable throat. “We can fix that.” 

The knife edges closer and Bruce pushes himself back against Jerome’s chest, as if afraid of the blade coming into contact with his throat the same way that he’d been the first time that Jerome had danced around him like this. His heart is racing for a much more thrilling reason, this time around. 

Jerome observes his expression in the mirror, his chin brushing against Bruce’s shoulder as he looms behind him. For one heated moment Bruce wonders if he’ll deviate from the script and just keep the knife at Bruce’s neck for the rest of their recreation, and he finds that he doesn’t think he’d mind it—the threat of the knife, the sting of a cut, his blood being spilt in a moment of passion, a mark for him to treasure. 

But the knife twists in Jerome’s hand, just like before, though there is no face-painter for it to be slid into this time around. Instead Jerome smears his fingers against an open tube of lipstick, picking up the wet red pigment.

“Let’s turn that frown upside down,” he croons in Bruce’s ear as his finger swipes a slick path across Bruce’s mouth. Jerome smiles at the sight of their reflection. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

“If you’re into this sort of thing,” Bruce finds himself saying, the brazen tone he’d used so often on that night coming back to him with ease. 

“Cheeky brat,” Jerome murmurs, sounding delighted, and the knife once again settles against Bruce’s soft skin. “Maybe I am into this sort of thing.” He leans in closer and Bruce has nowhere to go; the knife to his front, Jerome to his back, he’s trapped just like he had been before. Jerome makes a considering noise low in his throat as his sharp eyes watch Bruce in the mirror. “What are you going to do about it, little Prince?” His hand digs into Bruce’s hair again, the flat of his knife presses into flesh. All it would take is one little twist, a small change in the angle, and Bruce would get cut. “You’ve got no power in this place. Everyone here is either a spineless victim who couldn’t even stand up for themselves, let alone for you, or they’re completely loyal to me and they want to watch your execution.” Jerome rasps out a laugh directly in Bruce’s ear. “I’m going to make a real display out of you.”

“But not yet,” Bruce whispers.

“No,” Jerome agrees, hand slipping out of Bruce’s hair to drag down the front of his shirt. “Not yet. There aren’t enough people watching, yet.” He presses a sly kiss to Bruce’s temple. “The death of royalty needs more pomp and circumstance than all these plebs who my people are tormenting. A little more poetry, a little more stage-presence.” The hand delves lower, blatantly rubbing at the front of Bruce’s pants. “A little more public humiliation.”

Bruce jerks at the touch, pursing his lips together to keep an embarrassing sound trapped inside of his mouth, and Jerome chuckles darkly.

“Careful not to move too much, Brucie.” His hand presses down firmly and Bruce fights the urge to start squirming against it. “I wouldn’t want to nick you too badly before the main event. I was thinking I’d play with you for a while, before we get to that.” Jerome’s knife raises, the flat of the blade pressing against Bruce’s red mouth like a kiss. “Maybe I’ll even play with you at the start of it. See how sweetly you can beg for your life. See how desperate you are to stay alive.”

“I wouldn’t beg,” Bruce tells him, all defiance and nerve despite the heat coursing through his veins. “Besides, I don’t trust you to keep any promises about not killing me.”

“But don’t you want to delay the inevitable for one night?” Jerome yanks Bruce to his feet, kicks the chair aside, and pushes him towards the vanity mirror. Bruce has to shove his hands in front of himself before his face smashes against the glass. “And then maybe another, and maybe another, so long as you’re clever and don’t bore me too much. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?” The knife settles against Bruce’s throat, Jerome’s hand begins tugging at Bruce’s pants. “To buy yourself time?”

“Not like this,” Bruce says, strangled, braced against the mirror and watching Jerome smirk. 

“Too bad. You’re here, now, and in this place whatever I say goes.” Jerome hooks his chin over Bruce’s shoulder and he stares at their reflection as he undoes the zipper of Bruce’s pants. “And I say pretty boys like you really ought to have a farewell fuck before they face possible death.”

Bruce’s mind spins, and Jerome’s fingers begin to slide underneath the waistband of his underwear.

“Don’t you mean inevitable death?” His voice is softer, meeker, than it had been before.

“Maybe, maybe not, it really depends on how nicely you beg me to let you live. Even if you don’t die, I need to give my cult some kind of show. Then if I do decide not to kill you tonight I’ll still have degraded you, humiliated you, used you in front of a crowd of my adoring cult fanatics. Some might say that that’s a worse fate than death.” Jerome’s fingers skirt around the base of Bruce’s dick. “You’re already so hard for me, you precious, pretty little _slut_. Will you get hard again when you fall to your knees in front of me and suck my cock to try and make it through the night alive?”

“No,” Bruce protests sharply. “I won’t.”

“Liar,” Jerome coos, fingers sliding up the shaft to rub against the slick head. “You will. You want to be used, don’t you? A little Prince like you always got everything except for the punishment that you deserve. You’re used to being coddled and praised, that’s not exciting enough for you anymore. What you really need—” Jerome’s knife digs into his skin, just enough to sting like a paper-cut, and Bruce’s breath catches in his throat. “—is to be pushed past your limit.” Jerome’s dry hand grips around him and Bruce bites his lip hard to keep from whining. 

“Oh, maybe you’ll cry a little when you’re choking and gagging on my dick, maybe you’ll try to forget that there are so many eyes watching you, judging you, despising you.” Jerome’s hand strokes up and down, just on the verge of too-tight. “Maybe you’ll even start wishing that you’d accepted death with grace and dignity, instead of trying to buy time. But eventually…” The knife lifts away again, but only so that Jerome can shove two fingers into Bruce’s mouth. “When the drool starts dripping down your chin, and you figure out how to breathe, and you get used to the feeling of my cock-head thrusting into the opening of your pretty-boy throat, everything else is going to fall away. That clever, quick mind of yours is going to melt as I pull your hair and force you to take me to the root. All you’ll be able to think about is how you were made to suck cock. You’ll get so hard from giving me pleasure, I won’t even have to touch you. I control whether you live or die, and that gets you off, doesn’t it? All that power in someone else’s hands while you’re reduced to nothing but a wet hole to be used.”

“Fuck,” Bruce mutters, though the curse is garbled by Jerome’s fingers which are pressing down against his tongue, sliding further back into his mouth. Jerome chuckles and presses a kiss to Bruce’s jaw, his hand working over Bruce’s cock faster. 

“I’ll make a real mess of you even if I’m not cutting you open. When I start to cum I’ll paint my spunk all over your pretty face, and I won’t let you wash it off for the rest of the night. Everyone’s going to see you for what you really are.” His fingertips reach the back of Bruce’s throat. “My.” His hand jerks Bruce’s dripping dick. “Slut.”

Bruce whines and gives in, sucking on Jerome fingers the way he wants to suck his cock, audience or not. Jerome rumbles out a rough laugh in response, and Bruce achingly wishes that he were being fucked right now. Braced over the vanity and filled with cock, a knife to his throat, Jerome’s fingers in his mouth, watching himself unravel. He doesn’t know if he can come without his dick being touched, but he thinks it’s not impossible, given the right circumstances. 

“That’s it, Bruce. This is how it’ll be when you’re on your knees for me in front of the entire crowd. You feel good, don’t you? You love it, and if you survive the night we’ll do it all again tomorrow,” Jerome promises darkly. “Over and over, until you start to bore me. Then it’ll be lights out, darlin’, and you’ll get the public death that I promised you. It’ll be like our first time.” His voice is breathy, his lips skimming the side of Bruce’s face. Bruce’s fingers curl against the glass, hands turning into fists, as he begins to tremble. “I’ll hold you in my arms and slit your throat, little Prince.”

Bruce shuts his eyes and moans around Jerome’s fingers as he cums.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some excitement after their first time out together. Alternate summary: Jerome heard Bruce laugh and thought ‘I would like to suck this boy's cock.’ Oral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follows pretty much immediately after the second chapter of You and me are irresistible ends, before we get to the sliver of content left in the end notes.

Jerome’s current foxhole is still uninhabited but for them when their kisses become deeper and their touches more intimate. Bruce eventually drops his bat to the floor in order to run both of his hands through Jerome’s hair and Jerome—still high on the sound of Bruce’s candid laughter, still endeared and wild from Bruce’s admission that he smiled more often now that Bruce was with him—guides Bruce backwards, one step at a time, until Bruce’s back is pressed against a wall. 

This place isn’t meant for comfortable overnight stays or big gatherings. It’s just a little hole in the wall, free for a handful of Maniax to slip into if they thought they were being followed or had absolutely nowhere else to go. It’s sparsely furnished, with one couch that’s so dingy and stained that even Jerome would think twice before lounging on it, but Jerome doesn’t need much.

Jerome barely needs the privacy afforded by the walls around them.

“Ready to make _our first time_ even more memorable?” Jerome asks against Bruce’s painted lips, smiling wider against his mouth when he hears Bruce chuckle again.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Oh, you know—” Jerome’s fingers slip into the waistband of Bruce’s red and black pants, playfully tugging at the diamond patterned fabric. “—getting my mouth on you, making you cum.” He yanks them partway down Bruce’s thighs, and one of his hand shifts between them to rub at Bruce’s cock through his silky underwear. Bruce gasps against his mouth and grinds up against Jerome’s palm, already starting to get hard. Fuck, Jerome loves teenaged hormones, someday he’s going to see how long it takes for Bruce to get hard just from dirty talking to him. “How’s that sound to you, darlin’?”

“Good,” Bruce breathes, hands twisting tighter in Jerome’s hair. “Sounds good.”

“I thought it might.” Jerome presses one final kiss to the corner of Bruce’s mouth before dropping to his knees. He drags his tongue over the clothed swell of Bruce’s cock, first, delighting in the cute sound he makes, in the way he grips Jerome’s hair desperately, in the way he tries so hard to stay still without quite managing it. Then he pulls the single remaining layer of fabric down and takes the head into his mouth. 

Bruce pants and whines and moans Jerome’s name, all those sweet little noises that he knows drives Jerome crazy, while Jerome licks and sucks and hums around him. Bruce is so responsive and sweet, he doesn’t even try to hold anything back anymore. Every little thought that flashes into his head spills out of his mouth, now, every breathy sigh and mewl let out instead of kept in. The gloomy, restrained Bruce Wayne from before was a thing of the past. He allows himself to give in, now, allows himself to enjoy things, allows himself to show it, and Jerome wouldn’t have it any other way.

Bruce was so much more captivating when he didn’t try to hold himself back; his anger or his affection or his violence or his passion. When his true self shone through the steadily eroding shell that he had encased himself inside of—built up over time due to a desire to blend in instead of standing out even more—he was breathtaking. 

A wild divinity who Jerome would be pleased to worship upon any makeshift altar, or even without an altar at all.

“Jerome, fuck, you’re making me feel so good,” Bruce tells him lowly, hands twisting into Jerome’s hair so tight that it’s starting to sting. The trace of pain, the fact that it’s Bruce causing it, turns Jerome on even more. “I’m close, Jay, please don’t stop, I—” His fingers clench. His hips snap forward. He’s starting to tremble, hyper-sensitive, even though it’s only been a few minutes at most. Precious baby still had a short fuse, but Jerome didn’t mind. He loved how quickly he could get Bruce off, then turn him on all over again. “I’m gonna, ahh, _Jay_ , I’m gonna—”

Jerome’s fingers press firmly into the skin of Bruce’s hips. Jerome’s tongue drags across the dripping slit of his dick. Bruce curses and cries out, music to Jerome’s ears. 

“Jay, I’m cumming,” he warns, voice breaking when Jerome takes him deeper instead of pulling away. “Fuck, fuck, Jerome.”

Jerome swallows around him as Bruce falls apart, collapsing in on himself like a star. Bruce whines his name so prettily, even whimpering when Jerome catches his eyes while he makes a show of swallowing Bruce’s cum. Afterwards he presses adoring kisses to Bruce’s hipbones while they both catch their breath, and eventually Bruce’s grip on his hair loosens and he begins to pet at Jerome softly. Jerome can’t help but nudge up against his hand, eager to receive more of Bruce’s affection. All of his affection, even. 

“You always have the best ideas,” Bruce praises, and Jerome snickers as he stares up at him, meaning to give a snappy reply.

His words catch when Bruce leans down to kiss him, though, and Jerome enthusiastically presses up against his mouth instead.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a show almost goes wrong Bruce has blood on his hands, and while they're hidden in a dark alley Jerome acts accordingly. Dirty talk, mentions of spit kink and exhibitionism.

Bruce has blood on his hands—splattered across his knuckles, smeared under his nails, painted over his fingertips—already drying into a rusty red by the time they hide themselves away; not inside a safehouse or up to a secure roof or even camouflaged by a bustling crowd of disguised Maniax, but down a dark alleyway off of a quiet street, concealed only by deep shadows and luck. 

Despite that, or maybe even partially because of it—Jerome and Bruce both had vivid ideas about what it would be like to almost get caught or be outright watched during their more intimate moments—Jerome pins Bruce to the brick wall and drives his hands underneath the soft crimson jacket that Bruce had thrown on overtop of his fitted leather bodice, immediately stripping it off of him.

Bruce had cast aside the bat to use his fists when some rookie cop had managed to come up behind Jerome and almost catch him by surprise with a bullet. The shot had gone off course when Bruce had thrown him to the ground, fury rolling off of him in palpable waves. Bruce had been vicious, vengeful, and watching him had sparked the best kind of memories about their time together in the maze of mirrors before Jerome noticed even more officers closing in and swooped in to pull Bruce away.

Bruce has blood on his hands, and they’re both still alive and free, and Jerome is left almost dizzy as he wonders whether or not that rookie cop will be showing up in an oncoming obituary from the physical trauma dealt out to him. 

“You were brilliant, baby doll,” he murmurs between kisses, fingers tugging at the laces which keep the leather bodice tight against Bruce, trying to untie them one handed but only succeeding in pulling what was once a simple bow into a knot. His fingers dig against it, but he can’t undo it, not without taking the time to be patient, and he’s too frantic for that right now. “Did you know that seeing you like that gets me all hot and bothered? Damn, but you were a _vision_ of wrath and ruin, I bet some people are going to be more scared of The Harlequin than me.” Whenever Bruce’s composure snapped and his temper flared up anything could happen, unpredictable darling of chaos that he was, and Jerome is beyond pleased that he’s not the only one who knows just how destructive and merciless Bruce can become when given the right incentive. 

“Jerome.” Bruce’s hands dig into his hair, reeling him in, keeping him close. Jerome knows that he’s still a bit shaken up, but having Jerome so near to him is likely soothing the lingering panic at what could have happened if he hadn’t acted fast enough. “He had to pay for sneaking up on you, for almost getting you.” His eyes are flinty and dark, glinting with the heady promise of danger. “Anyone who does that is going to pay in blood, Jay.”

Jerome kisses Bruce again and revels in the way Bruce responds, opening his mouth and spreading his legs and bucking up against Jerome’s thigh like he’s eager to start something right here, right now, no matter that some wandering pedestrian out on a late-night stroll could walk past or into their current hiding place at any time and get an eyeful. 

Would they recognize the two dark figures in an alley for who they were?

Jerome nips at Bruce’s painted lips, mind pleasantly whirring as an idea takes root.

Would they run away, embarrassed to have intruded on an intimate moment? Or would they try to conceal themselves and watch? 

Jerome forces Bruce around, adoringly snickering at the soft, startled sound he makes before he brings his hands up to brace against the brick. Jerome’s hands glide over his hips, teeth skimming along his neck, and Bruce arcs his back, grinding his ass against Jerome and whining.

“My pretty little slut,” Jerome praises, fingers digging underneath layers to press against bare skin. “You want it so bad that you’d let me fuck you in a filthy alley?”

“I do, I do.” Bruce reaches back with one hand, fisting it into Jerome’s hair and tugging hard. “I could have lost you, Jay.” The sweetness of the sentiment is almost enough for Jerome to want to be tender, but Bruce shakes and shudders so pleasantly when Jerome sinks his teeth into him hard, so maybe tenderness isn’t what either of them really need right now. They need something to ache and linger. They need something rough and fast. They need each other as quickly as possible. “Show me that you’re still with me. I need you. I want you.” Bruce pulls sharply on his hair, legs spreading even wider. “Fuck me.”

“Greedy little thing,” Jerome murmurs, hands tugging down Bruce’s pants and underwear. They’d fooled around just before going out tonight, gentler and far more careful than this, so he doesn’t hesitate to shove two fingers inside of Bruce without warning, lingering lube and cum just barely smoothing the way.

“ _Fuck_.” Bruce’s hand rips out of his hair, pulling out multiple strands in his haste, to splay with a harsh smack against the wall. “Jerome, Jerome, please—”

“If you keep mewling like a cat in heat someone’s going to hear you,” Jerome whispers in his ear, driving his fingers in and out of Bruce harshly. Bruce can take it, Jerome knows that he can. “You’ve got to be quiet.”

“Can’t help it,” Bruce tells him, rusty-red fingernails digging into unrelenting brick. “If you wanted me to be quiet you should have put something in my mouth.”

“Much as I’d love for you to drool all over my fingers—” Because that is undoubtedly exactly what Bruce is asking for, which Jerome would normally be more than eager to give him. He loved to fill his precious, slutty boy up from both ends and make him feel so happily _well-used_. “—I’ve got other plans, so learn how to bite your lip and take it.” He adds a third finger and Bruce squeals. “Or else you’ll get us caught, _Harlequin_ , and then we’ll have to stop.”

Bruce makes a low, pitiful noise, but he stops talking back. They’re out in the open instead of behind closed doors, and suspicious noises are going to get attention out here. If they’re not careful anyone could walk by, anyone could see, anyone could watch Jerome fuck his pretty little Harlequin against a grimy brick wall. A civilian, a crook, maybe even a cop. Maybe even one of the people who used to know Bruce so well, who’d hardly be able to recognize him now even if he wasn’t painted and masked. 

Fuck, but he wants to drag Bruce up on a stage someday and lovingly, demeaningly, spit into his mouth while his old pal Jim Gordon is watching. Bruce would get so preciously humiliated and hard from all that special attention, Jerome bets he’d flush deep enough for it to peek through the dappled white greasepaint. 

Instead of sliding a few fingers of his free hand into a wet mouth Jerome reaches forward, bracing it over one of Bruce’s, interlocking their fingers and staring at the dried blood staining Bruce in a way that could almost be poetic. His other fingers slip out of Bruce’s ass so that he can undo his own pants and yank them down, spitting into his palm to slick up the head of his dick before he presses in, not giving Bruce a chance to adjust before he starts to fuck into him in earnest. 

Bruce gasps and cries out, loud enough that anyone outside the mouth of the alley would know exactly what was going on if they overheard.

“There you go again, baby, do you want us to get caught? Do you want people to see that my precious Harlequin is happiest when they’re stuffed full of my cock?” Jerome rocks into him deeply and Bruce makes a low sound, neither an affirmation or a denial. “No one would be surprised, you know. You’re my pretty little doll when we’re in the spotlight together, so of course you’re my pretty little doll when my dick is out.” His hand reaches around Bruce’s hip to roughly palm him, eyes briefly rolling back when Bruce clenches around him with a sweet, subdued whine. He’d known that this would be quick, but Bruce’s reactions are still almost enough to leave him a shuddering mess even if he’s supposedly the one in control. There’s a fleeting thought, then; if this was what Bruce had wanted, did that make Bruce the one in charge? Was Jerome the one bending to his Harlequin’s whims and wants? “We could put on quite the show, darlin’, if you’re itching to get off in front of an audience,” he rasps lowly. 

He kisses the skin behind Bruce’s ear, rocking into him, not letting himself pull out more than a few inches, desperate in his own way to stay near his sweetheart after such a close call. The warmth of Bruce’s back against his chest is a pleasant familiarity. The heat of Bruce’s cock and hole is an unrelenting delight. Bruce was made to be loved in all ways, and Jerome was made to love him in all ways. Filthy and sweet and humiliating and tender. Private and public. “Maybe in front of your old police friends.” Now that the idea is in his head it won’t ever leave, and what an idea it is. He fucks into Bruce, hard and rough, thinking about how it would feel to show off. “We can keep everything below the belt hidden.” It was one thing to display Bruce’s precious pink nipples, swollen from the attention of Jerome’s loving fingers and mouth, but Bruce’s bare, hard cock was a sight meant for Jerome’s eyes only, except for maybe on special occasions where the desire to show off overrode his possessive tendencies. “And we’ll let them see how hard I can make you cum.”

“Jerome,” Bruce groans, humping against his palm, fucking himself onto Jerome’s cock. Jerome can see that the tips of his ears and the side of his face are burning red, a sure sign of his mortified, salacious flushing. He’s so cute, so sweet, so perfect. Jerome feels molten heat curl inside of him, winding up tight. “Please.”

“Please what, darlin’?” He’s hardly drawing back, now, the sawing of his hips shallow and fast. “Please make a mess out of you, please show you off?”

“Please, please, _please_ ,” Bruce whines as he cums against Jerome’s hand, shuddering in the way that he always does when Jerome has properly wrung him out. The wet heat of him triggers something in the back of Jerome’s mind, some primal feeling of triumph to have made his boy feel so good, and his slick palm and fingers pull away from Bruce’s softening dick to lay overtop of Bruce’s other hand, wet spunk mixing with dried blood, as he starts to reach his own peak. 

His hands clench overtop of Bruce’s, he huffs into Bruce’s soft curls, when he breathes in he’s almost sure he can scent something metallic, as if the blood that Bruce had spilt is lingering on him like an alluring perfume. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, he would think if he were coherent enough, but instead it is just a feeling of _rightness_ that goes down to his marrow and sets him ablaze. 

Adoringly, achingly, he sinks his teeth into the skin of Bruce’s neck as he cums. Proof that Jerome is still with him, another little mark added to Bruce’s collection of rotating cuts and scratches and bruises and bites that are never fully faded before another is painted onto him. There’s blood on Bruce’s hands, blood in Jerome’s mouth, blood suffusing the air around them; like a rousing premonition of the ruination they will bring.

Jerome’s teeth unclench, his fingertips drag over rusty-red, he presses a kiss to the skin behind Bruce’s ear.

“Love you,” he whispers, smiling when it’s immediately echoed back at him. He runs his tongue over his teeth, pressing his weight a little heavier against Bruce’s back, reveling in the nearness. His eyes once again lock on Bruce’s stained fingertips.

His heart flutters as if he’s falling all over again.


End file.
